


Shallow Victory

by DeusVult



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: M/M, Shazog doesnt even know the hero of Kvatch or the Divine Crusader, Shazogs just a dude among dudes, The main quest will continue to go unmentioned as Shazog is part of my Oblivion B team, Theres a mystery to be unraveled, and so does my Orc Champion, hmm definitely daedra, i actually really like the adoring fan, i guess its title is staying shallow victory cuz i cannot think of anything better, more like medium burn i think, my dudes, oh is that daedra i smell?, so surprisingly this is not a joke fic, sort of slowburn, the rating will go up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeusVult/pseuds/DeusVult
Summary: In Cyrodiil, its commonly accepted that everything happens for a reason. People are taken from you, and brought into your life for a reason. To better yourself and to better others.It can hurt, but if you're steady and strong, you'll be better for it.





	1. The Imperial City

The victory had felt so hollow.

  
There Shazog stood at the center of the arena, the Grey Prince laid low before him. The crowds roared, their bloodlust satisfied for only a brief moment as they chanted his stupid title over and over.

  
"Skullcrusher! Skullcrusher! Skullcrusher!"

  
Agronak may not have been raised in Orsinium or a Stronghold, but he was a true testament to Orcish strength; Which is why it burned Shazog so much that the other Orc would throw the championship match like this. This wasn’t a good death; this wasn’t what a warrior like Agronak deserved.

  
Shazog had seen elders take the easy way out before, dying like cowards with their backs turned; but he always scorned and mocked them, feeling no sadness for their passing. He knew his outlook was rough by Cyrodiillic sensibilities, but that was the culture he was from and he took pride in it. In Orsinium you either die well or face Malacath, shamed in the planes of Oblivion.

  
But the pit in his stomach grew as the weight of what he'd done began to set in. The Grey Prince, Agronak Gro-Malog, was not only a bastion of positive thought for the Blood works and an indispensible asset as the Arena Champion, but he was also Shazog's only friend.

  
Everyone loved the Grey Prince, Shazog loved him and now he was bleeding out at his feet.

  
He knew he shouldn’t have told Agronak about what he found at the estate of Lord Lovidicus. He shouldn’t have told him about his father; Shazog didn’t know the news would break Agronak like this. No one ever had to know that the Grey Prince was sired by a vampire, Shazog didn’t care what Agronak was, he was a good man and a good friend. In Shazog's mind, Agronak's pedigree never mattered; but it mattered to Agronak, and he decided he couldn’t live with the knowledge that he was the spawn of a vampire, regardless of the fact that Lord Lovidicus truly loved him and his mother.

  
It was so unsettling, in those last few hours before their match, watching a once strong man crumble before him. Shazog knew Agronak was going to throw the match well before the match ever began.

  
As the Orc walks back into the Bloodworks, he isn't greeted with companionable cheers and shouts of congratulations. The air is thick and no one dares look at him. Owyn recognizes that he isn't basking in his victory, recognizes that this wasn’t truly a victory for Shazog.

  
When Owyn offers his gold reward for winning, all he can do is stare at the pouch being held limply in the other man's hand. None of this feels right and they both aren't sure what to say.

  
"How could you kill him?!" The silence is broken by Valirin, a bosmer from the blue team.

  
Shazog doesn’t turn to look at him, his eyes are focused just above Owyn's head. He doesn’t blink, because if he did he wouldn’t be able to stop the tears from coming. And Orc men definitely don’t cry over the death of a friend. At least, Shazog doesn’t.

  
"Weren't you his friend? How could you kill him? He trusted you!" Valirin may be small, but the man's voice has never echoed so loud in the usually noisy Bloodworks. The Bosmer marches up behind Shazog and yanks him by the forearm and effectively turns the gigantic Orc towards him.

  
"Answer me!" Valirin is red with anger, tears streaming down his face. Shazog always joked with Agronak that the tiny Bosmer had something of a crush on the pale Orc; There's a pain in his chest as he looks at Valirin's face and realizes there may have been some truth to those jabs.

  
"He threw." Shazog's voice wavers. He can't cry.

  
"What do you mean he threw?!" The rage that flashed across the Wood elf's face was definitely intimidating. The smaller man always was a force to be reckoned with in a match and Shazog had always quietly thanked the stars that they were on the same team.

  
"I said he threw." He won't cry.

  
"Why would he throw the match?! Why did he die? People survive these matches all the time, why is Agronak dead?!" Valirin was right. Combatants lose all the time, but don’t always die.

  
Shazog doesn’t know how to answer the elf. He's barely keeping it together and it must be showing finally because Valirin loosens his grip on the Orc's forearm. He looks less angry and more heartbroken. The room goes silent again. Owyn has moved out to the training room and is just standing there. The air is still thick with the urge to scream and cry.

  
"Why is he dead, Shazog?" Valirin asks quietly.

  
"He… Learned something and decided he couldn't go on. He felt… Lost and. Dishonored." He can't look at anyone as he speaks.

  
"He didn’t have to die. I didn’t mean to kill him. I tried talking him out of it, but he wouldn’t- I'm sorry Val." His eyes are closed now. He won't cry. He cannot cry.  
Owyn turns to look at the two of them. The other Combatants in the room whisper to each other and there's a murmur that runs through the Bloodworks.

  
"What did he learn?" Owyn asks; his face still somber, the bag of coins abandoned at his desk.

  
"That secret dies with me, Owyn."

 

  
////////////

 

  
The weather outside is far too agreeable for how Shazog is feeling. Night has fallen on the Imperial City, the Championship title being the last match of the day. Even Hundolin seemed out of sorts; who could blame him? He probably lost a lot of money on this match. After all, Agronak had never lost a bout.

  
For the first time in ages, Shazog is considering returning to Anvil to sleep in his own bed. He's the champion now, he deserves a rest. Time to heal and work through what he's feeling; After all, he hasn’t mourned since his mother passed. It’s a strange sensation and all he wants is his bed.

  
As he exits the gate to the Arena he is only barely aware of the excited tittering coming from a few feet away.

  
"By Azura! By Azura! By Azura!"

  
Shazog definitely heard that, how could he not with a voice that sounded like a dying scamp.

  
"You're the Champion! I can't believe it!"

  
Malacath's biceps, where in Oblivion is the person this awful voice belongs to? Shazog is now actively looking for this person.

  
"It's you! Standing here! Next to me!" The excitement in the grating voice mounts, and finally Shazog looks down.

  
Before him- entirely too close -is a bosmer. He looks ridiculous; shorter than both Valirin and Hundolin, with lemon yellow hair that is somehow defying gravity. Pair that with how dark the elf's eyebrows are and Shazog wonders how the elf can bear to be seen in public. The man looks like a fool.

  
"Um, can I follow you around for a little bit? I promise I won't get in the way!" The elf looks annoyingly hopeful and honestly Shazog is just really tired.

  
"...How do you feel about carrying fifty five pound armor for about sixty miles, in the wilderness?" Might as well put the elf to work if he wants to trail behind him.

  
"Oh- well, I suppose I can put in my best effort! Anything for you, Champion!"

  
Shazog had half expected the little bosmer to back off and go home disheartened. There's no way this tiny little thing is going to be able to carry the orc's heavy armor all the way to Anvil; but here he was, eager to please.

  
Shazog grunts and hands his napsack to the elf and watches him drop to the ground under its weight.

  
"Oof! That's- that’s a lot heavier than it looks, but fear not! I- Ah- can do it!" This elf will most certainly not be able to do it. He's walking like a newborn deer just trying to keep up with the orc's stride.

  
"Hm. Don’t sweat it. I think I'm going to hire a carriage. I don’t feel like walking home."

  
The elf tried to hide it but he was visibly relieved.

  
"Home, eh? A little vacation before the next season? That sounds lovely, you sure deserve it!"

  
Shazog didn’t answer him as they walked through the streets of the Imperial City, civilians chatting to one another as the night wound down.

  
The sky was so clear tonight, not a cloud looming overhead. The elf chittered about something but it was all just background noise. Shazog had a feeling that this would be a common occurrence from now on, just not caring enough to take in everything at once.

  
"We'll take the carriage to Skingrad, maybe stop there for the rest of the night and get something to eat." He cuts off whatever the elf was talking about.

  
The elf stops for a moment and takes in what Shazog had said.

  
"Oh! That'll be nice! I hear Skingrad has the most exquisite wines in Cyrodiil!" He laughs to himself and starts talking about the last time he got drunk off of wine, which Shazog could really care less about. At least he doesn’t have to carry his armor, right?

  
As the elf yammers on excitedly about an "excellent Cyrodiilic brandy" he had in Cheydinhal a while back, a thought occurs to Shazog.

  
"Hey-" He asks, interrupting the elf again. "Do you have a name or do I have to name you?"

  
The elf's face falls and there's something dark in his eyes. The orc feels a wave of dread wash over him.

  
"… _No_. I don’t have a name."


	2. Skingrad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> god i hope this shit is cohesive

The carriage ride to Skingrad was not only slow-going, but relatively uncomfortable.

 

Shazog's head was a mess; Agronak was dead, most of the gladiatorial circuit probably hated him now, he was really hungry, the strange elf sitting across from him wasn’t helping either. _He doesn’t have a name? What kind of fetcher goes about without a name? What does he mean he doesn’t have a name?_

He had asked what he should call the little yellow thing, but all he got in response was an almost angry-looking and very fake smile with a gritted "Anything you'd like, my Champion."

 

Initially, the elf was harmless feeling, annoying and maybe a little childish but definitely harmless. But now, looking at him from across the carriage Shazog can't help but feel there's something sinister going on. The Elf's face looks vacant, his eyes are distant.

 

"Have you ever been to Skingrad, Elf?" Shazog asks, leaning back on the carriage bench. The Elf perks up and smiles at him, something dim reflecting in his eyes despite his cheeriness. Shazog concludes that his attitude is definitely forced.

 

"Once, as a lad! Had an uncle that lived there, don’t think he does anymore. We lost touch." His brow furrows but his smile doesn’t falter. It’s a bit unnerving. "But this time around I'll be old enough to taste the wines! How exciting!" For a moment his excitement seems genuine.

 

"Hm. I'm more of an Ale man myself, but we'll stop by Tamika's for you." Shazog offers and the Elf smiles genuinely; both of them relax back into zoning out. The Elf still look's off, but a little more comfortable.

 

The rest of the ride to Skingrad is spent in relative silence and the duo arrives in the great city around 4 PM the next day. The sun hangs low in the sky and the town is bustling with commerce and chatter. Shazog helps the Elf off the carriage and they begin their walk to the nearest Inn.

 

Now, Shazog considers himself a simple man. Usually when he hits a town he doesn’t bother with an Inn, instead bunking in the stables with hay for a bed. But considering he has company this time around he deems it rude to force the Elf to sleep in the hay with him, no matter how much his coinpurse may want him to.

 

Not that _he_ wants to have a roll in the hay with the strange Elf.

 

So he decides it would only be polite to get them set up in a nice inn for the night. Through the Orc grapevine, Shazog had been made aware that the proprietor of The West Weald Inn was an insufferable woman with a penchant for singling out Beastfolk and Orcs. In short, she was a racist twat; Shazog felt exhausted just thinking about dealing with her, much less trying to explain to the wretched woman that he was famous and why he was travelling with a relatively nibenean-looking wood elf. So that put the West Weald out of the running. However, there was also a fine establishment in town run by one of two lovely Orc sisters. Shazog knew Ugak (She was the one that usually let him sleep in the stables) but had never had the pleasure of meeting Mog.

 

On top of that, he had heard that the Two Sisters Lodge was cheap, so it definitely had that going for it.

 

The two entered the Inn during what seemed to be the middle of a dispute. Mog stood at the counter, arms crossed and brow furled as Ugak pointed a finger in her face and shriek-whispered a myriad of insults in Orcish. They were obviously trying to keep the argument quiet, but Shazog knows there's no such thing as quiet Orc fights.  All Shazog caught in the bickering was something about where they were interring their Father, which immediately tunes Shazog out of the conversation. Familial and clan disputes are none of his business, especially when it comes to the burial of a chieftain.

 

Shazog and the Elf stood awkwardly in the foyer of the Inn, waiting for their hosts to end their argument.

 

Eventually, enough was enough and Shazog decided to step in after Mog had called her sister a swine-brain for suggesting they bury their father next to Ugak's mother, who was apparently his fifth wife. _'Not even an honored Forge-wife, such scandal.'_

 

_"Ladies, my friend and I were wondering if we could get a room, y'know, if you aren't too busy."_ Shazog interjects by standing physically in between the two women.

 

_"What, Milk-drinker?!"_ Mog snaps.

 

_"Oh hey Shazog, did you hear all that."_ Ugak addresses him with severe uninterest.

 

_"Hi Ugak, fancy seeing you indoors. Anyway, one room please."_

 

_"… Two beds?"_ Mog leans to the side to the side to regard the little elf who smiles confusedly at the three Orcs. Shazog then realizes that the conversation never lapsed out of Orcish. That’s ok; the Elf doesn’t need to know what's being said.

 

_"One big bed if you have it."_ Shazog says nonchalantly. Mog's face scrunches in disgust.

 

_"It isn't my business but I feel personally obligated to tell you that I think your taste in men is repulsive. Disgusting, even."_ Mog sneers.

 

_"Sister!"_ Ugak lightly slaps Mog's shoulder and gives a muffled laugh.

 

_"Please, have you seen that thing? It's head looks like a fucking lemon tart."_ She doesn’t break eye contact with the Elf the entire time. He looks more nervous than before and his smile has magically vanished.

 

_"…Were not. No, we aren't- I'm just cheap. Like. I am the definition of miserly. Ask Ugak, I've slept in stables up until now. I have money, I just hate spending it."_ Shazog stumbles over his words. He's had flings with people of all sorts, but this is just uncomfortable.

_"Sure. And Molag Bal's dick is an inch long."_ Mog smirks and stares at Shazog knowingly. Ugak is turned away and trying not to lose her composure.

_"That’s just unnecessary."_ That’s not a mental image he wants in his mind.

_"Never seen you with someone trailing behind you before, Shazog. What else is a girl supposed to assume?"_ Ugak finally chimes in, still trying to choke back laughter. She even has a tear in her eye. Shazog fixes her with a stare; this was not that funny, could she please stop laughing so hard?

_"Y'know what? Fine. Two beds. The cheapest fucking beds you have."_ The big Orc concedes defeat. He may not be in a rush but he really doesn’t have the time for this, on an existential level.

 

_"That'll be thirty-five septims."_ Mog holds out a palm for her payment and Shazog begrudgingly counts out the gold, muttering in Common about how ridiculous the price was.

 

"I can help pay, my Champion!" The Elf begins to search for his coin purse, but is caught off guard by Ugak's howling laughter.

 

"My Champion?? What is that about?" Ugak gives another screech of laughter and Mog is looking like a cat that got the cream.

 

"Don’t bother, Elf- Ugak, you are a grown woman. Please control yourself. Mog, _Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. What's my room number?"_ Shazog is already grabbing the Elf by the arm and dragging him away when Mog tells them that their in room number two, upstairs.

 

"Well, they seem like lovely lasses, don’t they?" The Elf says once in the safety of their quarters.

 

The room is well kept with a window that looks out on the street, it's warm and cozy. Shazog wasn’t expecting this level of quality. He may grumble about price but he still knows that a two bedroom room for less than forty septims is a good deal.

 

"Yeah, Ugak's usually decent but Mog, Mog's got a smart mouth it seems. Not sure I like her." Shazog begins unloading his knapsack full of bracers and small weapons on one of the beds. He unlatches his cuirass in one fell swoop and the whole piece comes crashing to the floor. The Orc's chest is bare, but covered in hair and scars. "At least they run a clean establishment. Haven't seen any rats yet. Wonder how the food-"

 

"My Champion! Let me help you with that!" In an instant the Elf is in front of Shazog, his hands on Shazog's greaves, trying to undo them. Shazog stops and watches the Elf fiddle with the straps and latches at his hips before he takes his large hand and gently engulfs the Elf's head with his palm and creates some distance from him and his greaves.

 

"…No." The Orc eyes the Elf down and uses his other hand to remove the Elf's fingers from his hips. "I wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath my cuirass, what makes you think I'm wearing pants?"

 

The Elf turns red and a funny expression crosses his features.

 

"I- uh- I just wanted to help. I guess I wasn’t thinking." The Elf peeks at Shazog from behind the Orc's huge fingers.

 

"… Why do you wanna carry my armor so bad? You were pretty eager about it back in the Imperial City, too." Shazog is still gently gripping the Elf's face and hands. He can see the Elf's face drain and fall all at once.

 

"I… I just want to help?" The Elf is lying.

 

Shazog reasons that the Elf either wants to steal his armor, or is an assassin sent to kill him and is trying to get him unarmored for an easier kill.

 

 His armor isn't particularly unique, it's pretty standard ebony armor; well-made and sturdy, but certainly not worth stealing. And a good thief would've stolen it already and not bothered being seen.

 

But he might also be a bad thief.

 

On the other hand, he could be an assassin. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody tried to have him killed. If this kid was an assassin, he wasn’t of black-hand stock. Not the right air about him, too uncomfortable and caught off-guard too often. Maybe a relative of one of his Arena kills, then? That would fit. An angry kid, out to avenge a brother or a sister. The Elf hasn’t blinked since Shazog went quiet, never breaking eye contact.

 

Shazog slowly releases his face, reaches over to his knapsack and grabs his coinpurse, keeping his hands gripped.

 

"…Go downstairs and get us something to eat. Something meaty. Don’t clear out my wallet, got it?" He tucks the coinpurse into the Elf's hands. He stares up at Shazog, wide eyed and vaguely fearful; he hasn’t moved since the Orc released him.

 

"Well?" Shazog straightens out his spine, not realizing how much he had to hunch over to grasp the Elf. The man only went up to Shazog's midriff in height; now that they were side by side it became obvious how small the Elf really was. If the kid was really an assassin, he didn’t stand a chance. All it would take is one forceful throw from Shazog and the Elf would be a stain on the pavement.

 

"Yes sir." It’s a quiet uttering and the Elf hurries out of the room.

 

Once the door shuts, Shazog undoes his greaves and they fall to the floor with a thud. He actually was wearing pants; he just wanted to give the Elf a hard time. What man wears greaves without pants? Nobody wants their privates getting pinched on all that metal.

 

Shazog deems there's no point in trying to hide his armor. If it gets stolen, it gets stolen. If he gets stabbed in his sleep tonight, he gets stabbed. He'd probably survive a stabbing though. This kid looks soft; he's probably never murdered somebody before, much less served hard time. Probably doesn’t know how to properly brandish a weapon.

 

An hour passes as Shazog does his fitness routine. He figures he may as well keep it up even though he's no longer in the circuit; it's never a bad idea to keep your skills sharp and your body in shape.

 

He's on his second set of pushups when the door quietly opens to the Elf carrying a rather large tray of food and a few bottles of ale.

 

"They had lamb in sweet eel sauce, I th-" He stops short, does a once over of Shazog on the floor and picks up where he left off. "I thought you might like it- I personally love eel sauce! It's so tangy!… Um, what are you doing on the floor, if I may ask?" He carefully sets the tray and the bottles on the table and pulls out a chair to sit on.

 

"Working out. Food smells edible." He lies, the food smells delicious. Lamb and eel really sounds like it shouldn’t go together but his mouth is watering. It smells both sweet and savory; if Shazog knew how to cook anything aside from the basics, he would want the recipe based on smell alone.

 

"Wow, you're so dedicated to your work sir. It's very admirable! I hope one day you'll allow me to witness you training." He's smiling but jittery.

 

"I mean, the routines not a secret or anything; gotta be prepared to crush a man's skull with my bicep, even outside the Arena." Shazog joins the Elf at the table and takes in the spread of food. Mmm, potatoes four ways.

 

"…That’s incredible." The Elf's eyes seem distant again as he blankly stares at said bicep. Shazog wonders where the kid's mind goes when he zones out like that.

 

The Orc tears a piece of the lamb off and chews loudly. The Elf takes a bottle of ale and opens it for Shazog, which the Orc grunts in approval at.

 

They eat in silence for a bit. Shazog takes time to size up the Elf. He could've poisoned the meal, or the ale; but if that were the case, Shazog would already be feeling it take effect. The Elf doesn’t look at him once during the meal, his face just as zoned out as it was at the start of the meal. He almost seems as though he's on autopilot, or depressed, or something. Shazog has questions but no eloquent way to ask them; he's never been good with pleasantries and etiquette. But, he figures there's no time like the present.  

 

"Hey, why are you so fucking weird?"


	3. Skingrad Continued

"Hey, why are you so fucking weird?"

The Elf slowly, subconsciously lowers his fork. He's staring at the food, avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t look nervous or frightened anymore, just vacant. As if there's nothing going on in his head.

"You gonna answer me?" Shazog takes a sip of his ale.

The Elf plays with the potatoes on his plate with the fork in his hand and grimaces.

"…I didn’t say it to be mean, I'm just blunt. Sorry if I hurt your feelings." Shazog knows how he said it makes it sound ingenious, but he really does mean it.

More silence.

"Look, could you please say something? Cause' at this point I think you're gonna try to kill me in my sleep and I'd really like to avoid that cause' I'm tired." The Elf looks up, suddenly alert and panicked.

"No! No, I would never do something like that to you my Champion!" 

Shazog puts down his utensils and leans back in the wooden chair. It whines under the strain.

"Good to know, but I would still like to know why you zone out like you're deadra-possessed half of the time."

They stare at each other and the minutes start ticking by; both of them with their hands balled into fists next to their plates.

"I'm not getting any answers out of you tonight, am I?" 

"I'm sorry, Sir." The Elf looks upset and genuine in his apology.

Shazog takes about three more bites of his dinner and then excuses himself. The Elf doesn’t touch the rest of his food and proceeds to gather the tray and bring it back to the kitchens.

Shazog settles onto his bed, feet and calves hanging off the end as the bed creaks under his weight. Another reason why Shazog doesn’t usually stay at inns; a few years ago when he was still new in Cyrodiil, he had crushed a few beds at a couple of inns and became unwelcome in most inns in the trans-Niben. He's a big man, it's not his fault Nibenean furniture is so weak.

He's blown the lantern out and is half way to sleep when the Elf returns from the kitchens. He closes the heavy wooden door and Shazog can barely hear his footfalls. He's both impressed and slightly anxious with how silent the wood elf is. He half wonders if he pegged the kid all wrong, that maybe he was some master assassin blessed in the art manipulation and subterfuge. 

Well, if there's a chance he might die tonight, he figures he'll face destiny like a man. Malacath would never let him live it down if he died in his sleep to a half pint like the Elf. 

Shazog rolls over on the bed, feigning sleep. He hears a soft crack from the bed frame and silently hopes the thing doesn’t just give out altogether. He opens his eyes just a crack to see the Elf staring at him.

He's looking over his shoulder, body facing his bed. Their eyes meet and Shazog feels awkward. The Elf's expression changes and he gives Shazog a nervous smile. Shazog returns it with an uncomfortable, toothy grin.

"Sure you aren't gonna murder me tonight? Cause' staring at me while I sleep isn't helping that whole situation." It's said just above a whisper and the Elf drops the smile and continues staring.

"… Are you going to murder me tonight, Champion?" The Elf hasn’t blinked once in the seven minutes they’ve been having this exchange and something in the pit of Shazog's stomach feels tight and wrong. Why would he murder the Elf? What reason could he possibly have? It's not like he has a reputation for it. He's never been a mercenary; he's only ever attacked people if they struck first. Sure he was a warrior back in Orsinium, but that was solely to defend the tribe and his sisters.

"Look, I know being an Arena combatant comes with a 'violent' preconception, but I wouldn’t hurt somebody if they didn’t hurt me first. Especially if their small enough to punt half-way to Hammerfell, like you." 

The Elf continues to stare.

"…I didn’t want to kill the Grey Prince. He- he didn’t-" There was no reason to be talking about this with the Elf, but Shazog felt the need to fill the silence.

"It's ok, I believe you." The Elf smiles, eyes softening, he turns back to his bed and settles in. 

Shazog lies in bed, his mouth slightly agape.

"Goodnight, my Champion." 

"Goodnight Elf." 

///////////////////////////////

The next morning Shazog opens his eyes to realize he has not died, and he doesn’t even feel like he's been stabbed, so it's safe to assume that the Elf stayed true to his word. It's just barely dawn, the cobblestone street outside is a gloomy grey, the weather a light drizzle.

 

The Elf is still asleep so Shazog creeps out of bed as quietly as a near 7 foot, 400 pound Orc can. He snatches his coin purse off of the table and ventures to the kitchens for breakfast, but not before stopping by the latrines. To deal with morning business and all that somesuch.

The kitchens are far from busy. The Inn doesn’t seem to have many guests during this season, and the few patrons that are lodging here are probably still asleep.

"Fair morning Serjo, what can I do for you?" The dunmer woman silently greets from the kitchen bar.

"Mornin'. Need a breakfast that'll hold over for a few hours on the road." His voice is still gruff from sleep.

"Aye, Serjo. In need of tack, as well?" Her Balmoran accent is thick and Shazog fleetingly wonders how new to the land she is. He decides it's none of his business and he doesn’t care. He does, however, appreciate her forethought to ask if he needs road rations.

"Yeah, that would be good. Thank you." The woman ducks back into the kitchen and Shazog hears her relay his order to the Dunmeri apprentice boy stoking the fires.

The wait for breakfast wasn’t long; they must've had something already started for the early risers. Mog and Ugak joined Shazog at his table while they waited for breakfast as well. The mischief from last night seems to have faded from them with the weight of sleep; Mog asks how he slept and Ugak yawns heavily. Nobody seems quite ready for the day. 

Breakfast is finally served just moments later. The tray is about as large as the one from last night and the spread is just as hearty. These dunmer must be used to feeding Orcs because not only did the cook up a huge steak, but they also fried up a dozen eggs; Theres a few elven flourishes here and there with the dense, sweetened biscuits slathered in goat butter and a wedge of cheese rests melting under some seasoned potatoes. The whole thing looked an absolute picture and Shazog couldn’t wait to dig in.

"Serjo! I'll put together some tack for you in a bit, stop by before you head out!" The woman hollers from the bar.

"Yeah." The Orc begins making his way back to the room.

The Elf is sitting in his bed, having just woken up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Got some breakfast. Eat up so we can get on the road."

"Oh, thank you." The Elf walks lazily to the heavy oak table in the corner of the room and takes a seat. 

The meal begins in silence, but unlike last night the Elf is the first to break the silence.

"You know, I half expected you to have left in the middle of the night. You seemed pretty sure I was going to try to kill you." He laughs but it falls flat and bitter. A butter knife clinks against his plate as he cuts into a fried egg in the most lack luster way the Orc has ever seen.

Shazog never thought a man could be depressed while eating steak and eggs, but in light of recent events, he can suddenly relate.

"I figured if you stabbed me it would be a fitting end to the worst day I've ever had." The Orc takes a sip of apple cider to wash down the three fried eggs and half a steak he's already devoured in the time it took for the Elf to get to the table.

The Elf laughs nervously, staring uncomfortably at Shazog.

"… So, can you cook?" Shazog clears his throat, trying to either lighten the mood or change the subject.

It works and the Elf is adequately distracted. Or at the very least takes the hint.

"Oh, Yes! My Mother taught me a few good recipes growing up! I still remember them, too. Lots of pies; 'if a man can eat it you can probably bake it into a pie' is what Ma always said." The Elf chatters away and the two finish their meal without further incident.

The road to Anvil was going to be a strange one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg this took way too long i had,,,, ALL the writers block with this damn chapter. I scrapped it twice. Next chapters gonna be more fun to write and hopefully yall like it! DV<3


	4. The Road To Anvil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i actually mapped out their route from Skingraad to Anvil in game, which was super fun! Heres a drawing of Shazog I did if yall would like to have a visual! https://twitter.com/HiMothArt/status/1034723377947205633

"I don’t remember the road to Anvil being so rough!" The Elf hunches over, hands braced on his knees and breathing heavily.

"Ha, and you wanted to carry my armor. You can hardly carry the food pack without going blue!" 

The two had begun walking shortly after breakfast and had been on the road for a few hours. The sun was now high in the sky and weather had gone humid with a light breeze, rustling through the dark green forest.

"So, is there a reason why we aren't taking the road? Not that I can't handle a little hiking." The Elf asks as he scrambles his way up a rock.

"Well we can't very well take the road through Kvatch, can we?" Shazog laughs under his breath as he helps hoist the Elf up onto the boulder.

The Elf gives a pause before looking over his shoulder to give Shazog a strange look.

"We can't? What's wrong with Kvatch?" The Elf steadies himself against the flat surface of the boulder using Shazog's hands which are holding him up by his hips. The Orc silently marvels over how small the Elf is; one of Shazog's hands is about as wide as the Elf's waist.  
"Did you break the law there, or something?" 

"Uh, no. I just don’t think it would be safe with the Daedra and all." Once the Elf is safely on the upper half of the stoney ledge, he began to pull himself up.

The Elf makes a face like he just smelled something that had gone off. 

"Daedra? Why would there be Daedra around Kvatch?" The Elf waits for Shazog to get his bearings on the ledge before moving forward through the tall grass of the Golden Plains.  
Shazog stares at the Elf for a moment, trying to figure out if he's joking or not.

"Yeah, there's still a lot left over from when Kvatch was under siege. The Imperial Foresters keep sending out warnings to travelers in the area." 

"Kvatch was under siege? When?" The Elf is visibly shocked and mortified. "It wasn’t Valenwood that attacked, was it?" 

"No… An Oblivion gate opened right outside the city. Only a handful of citizens survived, it was a goddamn massacre." Shazog and the Elf now walk side by side, the Orc looking down at the Elf in confusion.

"Oblivion gate?"

"Yeah, how did you not hear about this? It was all over the press. Happened like, two weeks after the Emperor got assassinated." Shazog nearly trips when the Elf spins around, his eyes wide and nearly screams.

"The Emperor was assassinated?!" The Elf is clutching Shazog's forearm.

"It happened like, four months ago! Have you been living under a rock or something? The Emperor got murdered, all his heirs are dead and there's this cult trying to bring Mehrunes Dagon into Nirn."

"Excuse me, WHAT?"

Shazog stares at him incredulously.  
"Do you want me to buy you a copy of the Black Horse Courier? I can, you can read for yourself. Royal family is six feet under and daedric portals to oblivion are around every corner." The Orc walks slowly so the short elf can keep up.  
"Seriously, where have you been?" The Orc gently nudges the Elf's shoulder as they walk.

"I've been away, apparently. What's the empire going to do without an emperor?" The Elf trails behind Shazog through the grass. 

"Panic, I assume. I mean, I can always just sell my house and hike it back to Orsinium if shit goes belly-up. The Empire already doesn’t really see us as one of theirs so we'll probably be left out of whatever power scuffle that’s gonna happen. Can't say for you Niben's though, that shits gonna be rough." Shazog hopes it comes off as a friendly ribbing and he smirks at the Elf.

It doesn’t come off as friendly, apparently. The Elf looks Shazog in the eyes and pauses his walking once more, looking worried and maybe a little scared; he lightly touches the Orc's forearm.

"You're going to leave the country?" The Elf maintains eye contact but begins to unfocus, looking through the Orc instead of at him. He blinks and seemingly returns to himself. "Do you really think it will get that bad? Worse than Oblivion gates, I mean?"

"Well, I hope it doesn’t get worse than a few gates. I don’t actually want to leave Cyrodiil anytime soon." Shazog gently puts a hand on the Elf's shoulder in reassurance, and then waves a large green finger in the Elf's face.  
"But- If Mehrunes Fuckin' Dagon starts taking a stroll through the Imperial City, I'm out of here and you should be too."

The Elf giggles at the thought.  
"Oh, how frightening that sounds! Perhaps the Daedric Prince of destruction will stop by the arena for a match, hah!" He covers his mouth to laugh. 

The two continue on through the Golden Plains, passing by the ruins of Kvatch and briefly stopping at a farm to shoot the breeze with the Breton farmer working the fields.  
The Elf didn’t ask any questions but he was able to piece together that Shazog had helped the man, Thorley, with a bear problem some time ago. The Orc had them stop to ask how the farm and flock was doing and Thorley seemed grateful, offering them to stay the night at his farmhouse. Shazog turned him down however, stating that they had to get moving if they wanted to get to Anvil before it got too dark out. The two bid farewell to the farmer and resumed their journey. 

An hour from the farmstead it became apparent that a storm was quickly brewing Over Rihad in Hammerfell, most likely from the ocean. 

"We can probably bunk down in fort Linchal, just over the hill there. It's usually abandoned." Shazog points over the hill at some rubble standing in the middle of a low clearing.

"Usually abandoned?" The Elf asks as they begin to walk their way to the fort.

"Sometimes bandits hole up in it, but I can handle that just fine." The orc begins taking more care in his steps as they draw closer to the ruin. "Let's tread lightly, just in case, though."

Shazog peeks over a pile of rubble into the fort's courtyard and his stomach clenches at what he sees. 

"Yeah were not staying here tonight. Worm cult's taken up shop. Disgusting." The orc sneers.

"Wait, necromancers?" The Elf looks spooked but manages to keep his voice low.

"Well there's a sacrificial altar covered in blood and a guy in a black cloak guarding the door. And lots of body parts just lying around. I could definitely clear out the fort, but I don’t want the Worm cult knowing who I am and I certainly don’t want you to get killed. We're moving on."

The elf nods silently and the pair backs away from the fort. They climb their way up into the hills surrounding the pass just as the storm hits. The rain isn't hard but it does make the air frosty and it falls in great waves across the pass, filling the natural basin with water. 

As the Nine would have it, the pair finds a camp ground completely abandoned and hidden partially amongst the trees, overlooking the pass. Shazog begins to set up camp and does his best to water proof the tent provided.

"We'll bunk down here until the storm lets up. I got the tent set up for you, I'll keep watch." 

"How much farther till Anvil do you think?" The Elf asks as he settles into the tent. The orc begins working on the fire pit, trying to get a flame to catch.

"Just over the ridge here, I'd figure. It's all downhill and that wouldn’t be safe in the rain, though." The fire is small, but warm enough.

"Wow, that close?" He scoots a little closer to the fire pit, warming his hands as he sits on the fallen log next to Shazog.

"Yeah, I'd say a little less than 4 miles till the coast. I can't wait to just sleep for the next four days." Shazog pokes the flame with a twig. "Hey, isn't your family going to be worried that you just up and left? Should you send a letter or something?"

"Ha, I haven't a family to mention, Champion. What about you? Isn't your wife going to be upset you brought home a street urchin?" The Elf laughs with an uncomfortable edge to it.

"Wife?? -Malacath's biceps, kid! I've been in the gladiatorial circuit for the past ten years; I didn’t really have time to start a family, much less pay attention to a wife. No, no family to speak of, we should be fine." The orc seems to find the prospect of a wife and family funny. The Elf gives an affirmative noise and continues warming his hands.

"… My legs are sore. I should invest in a horse." Shazog stretches out as much as he can in the small space.

The Elf giggles.


	5. Anvil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this chapter is cohesive! I wrote most of it in a fit of dramatic artistic panic last night in three hours. The two friends i send this to beta said it was good, but ill go through it once more when im well rested. It may be subject to change (But i probably wont). Hope Ya'll had a spooky Halloween! i ordered pizza and slept. :3c
> 
> Oh!!! i have a Ko-fi now, if u wanna buy a girl a drink ;3 !!!!  
> http://ko-fi.com/A7631597

True to his word, Shazog spends the next four days sleeping, for the most part. 

 

By the time the storm had passed enough for them to make it to Anvil, the sun had set and a majority of the townsfolk had turned in for the night. A few guards patrolled the town square and quietly greeted the two as they passed.

 

If the Elf had ever forgotten how much gold an Arena Champion made, he'd just have to look at Shazog's home to remember. 

 

A large, near-sprawling affair, built out of Anvil's signature white stone and green tiles. The front garden seemed to be a little overgrown, probably a testament to how often Shazog found himself at home. Otherwise, the land seemed in good condition, and fairly impressive. What the Elf found even more impressive was how out of it the Orc proved to be upon arriving at his own front door.  
Unfortunately, the door appeared to be a whole head shorter than Shazog, who promptly whacked his head while trying to enter the threshold. He softly groaned, made embarrassed eye contact with the Elf and wordlessly entered the house. 

 

The first night at the manor Shazog had all but made it to the living room, lit the hearth and immediately laid face down on the bearskin rug and began snoring. 

 

The Elf stood uncomfortably by one of the end tables as he watched this sequence of events. No words were spoken, even though he wanted to ask if there was a spare bed anywhere for him. It wouldn’t of mattered anyway, he doesn’t think Shazog would've woken up to show him; honestly, he didn’t want to disturb the sleeping giant anyway.  
There was a small, dusty quilt on a rack near the hearth so the Elf just beat some of the dust off of it and curled up on the long couch. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and tried to fall asleep, focusing on Shazog's rhythmic snoring.

 

Something about the balcony overlooking the living area made him feel as though he was being watched, though.

 

………………………

 

The Elf wakes up bright and early the next morning and the house is a lot more inviting in the daylight. Sunlight filters in from the windows high up in the living area, giving everything a soft glow. The hearth has burned out and Shazog is still dead asleep on the floor, looking at peace if not a little bit chilly. 

 

Swinging his legs off the couch, the Elf gathers up the quilt and lays it over the Orc, noting with a giggle that it barely covers his upper half; how silly looking! But expected, the quilt barely covered him as well last night.

 

The young man hums quietly to himself as he finds his way to the kitchen, checking cupboards and drawers for spices and any dried ingredients he could use. Mercifully, there doesn’t seem to be any stale or moldy food, but there certainly isn't anything meal-worthy in the house.  
A lonely jar of pickles and a handful of spices greet him. He could work with pickles, but pickles are never meant to be a full meal. They aren't Arcane University students, needing to survive on bread and cheese while cramming for a test.

 

With a stuffy nose and a growling stomach, the Elf gently shakes Shazog's shoulder.  
"My Champion? Can I borrow some septims to go to the market? I want to make breakfast."  
The Orc cracks open an eye and nods silently before passing out again.

 

The Elf flits over to Shazog's bag, which was unceremoniously dumped in the foyer last night and finds the coin purse. He readjusts his green tunic, fixes his gravity defying hair in the hall mirror and quietly opens the door. 

 

The town of Anvil is bustling in the morning; the salty ocean air wafts gently on the breeze and the townsfolk are friendlier than those in the Imperial City.  
A kind town guard had told the Elf that he could find a grocer somewhere on the boardwalk, which he found was just passed the upper residential area of Anvil. The cobblestone streets led to pretty little walkways for more manors similar to Shazog's, all wrought iron, blue-green tile and white stone. 

 

A young Redguard couple stood on their porch, quietly arguing, but they pause to awkwardly wave at the Elf, who was definitely staring. 

 

"Hi there! Are you a traveler?" The woman calls from the railing. Her husband huffs and plops down onto a wicker porch chair behind her.

 

"Oh! No Ma'am! I'm here with Shazog, the arena champion! I'm his personal attendant." The young man states proudly. "He lives here in town, right down the way there!" 

 

"So you're one of Mr.Gro Gholth's friends! My name's Maelona, this is my husband Gogan. Will you and Mr.Gro Gholth be staying in town for long?" She leans on the railing, smiling with her hands folded under her chin.

 

"Uh, well, I'm not actually sure. Shazog is very tired, so he may stay for a bit." It feels weird for the Elf to be calling his Champion by his given name, but he supposes it won't always be appropriate to refer to him as 'his Champion'. He feels a little uncomfortable with how excited Maelona seems to be to talk to him. Is this how others feel when he speaks to them? 

 

It's not his fault he's so annoyingly chipper. 

 

Maelona bids him farewell and points him towards the small produce stand on the dock. She swears they have the freshest produce.

 

The view of the ocean is strangely intimidating. The Elf can't recall the last time he had seen something so expansive, but empty. The soft waves are certainly beautiful but their darkness is deep and more than a little scary. No ships or land in the distance leaves a skyline that blends seamlessly with the water; he feels like he's staring at nothing.

 

He snaps himself away to take in the rest of the harbor. An elderly woman paint's the lighthouse just off the boardwalk, a few grocery stalls shout over the waves to sell their merchandise.

A lovely scene, if he's being honest with himself.

 

He picks up a sack of potatoes, a carton of eggs, and some cured ham for breakfast; a reliable choice.  
He also grabs a slab of butter, bags of flour and sugar. He picks a sack-full of ripe apples, as well.  
It's been a long time since he's been able to bake a pie with his mother's recipe and he's brimming with excitement. 

 

There's one thing left on the Elf's shopping list, and that’s alcohol. He turns his attention to The Flowing Bowl, a tavern right there on the waterfront. He can do this. He can totally do this.

The Elf has never been good in bars and taverns. He visibly does not fit in with the usual clientele and he probably never will; He's alright with that, but he still doesn’t enjoy entering such places. It doesn’t help that they smell really bad half of the time.

 

He enters through the front door as quietly as he can, arms full of groceries and shimmies up to the bar.

 

"Hi, can I get a case of ale?" He squeaks out. The other Bosmer behind the counter greets his kinsman jovially and slides a small case across the bar. The Elf clumsily grabs a few gold septims from the pouch and hands it to the other Bosmer, trying not to drop all his groceries.

 

"Thank you!" He hollers over the potatoes, trying to get a good grip on the wooden ale case with his left hand.

 

"No, thank you, friend! Be sure to stop by again soon and have a drink with me! My brother and I love to see new bosmer in town!" He grins and waves as the Elf scuttles to the door.

 

His exit is stopped by two women; a tall Nord and a black haired Imperial. 

 

"Well, hello sailor. We couldn’t help but to notice how handsome-" "And rich!" "-you are." The Imperial lightly smacks the Nord's shoulder. She smiles sweetly at the Elf, who is about a foot shorter than her.

The two ladies reek of a specific type of sleazy; the type of sleaze that makes a smart man keep his coin purse under lock and key. Definitely not trustworthy, and the Elf can smell a plot in the air.

"My friend and I were wondering if you would like to join us for a drink tonight? We could have so much fun-"

 

"Sorry Miss, I'm otherwise engaged, please excuse me." The Elf pushes past the two, who are clearly flabbergasted and exits the establishment.

 

………………………

 

Shazog awakens, stiff and a little chilly to the smell of food.

 

He picks himself off of the rug and folds up the little quilt and hangs it back of the rack. He's not sure where it came from. It's far too small for anyone to use effectively.

 

"Ah! Good morning, my Champion! I went and picked up some groceries, I'm going to bake a pie later! Doesn’t that sound delightful?" The Elf chatters a little too loudly.

 

"…Kid, too loud. Too early." Shazog pulls up a chair at the dining table and stretches, his neck and back loudly cracking and popping.

 

"Oh, sorry, sir! How did you sleep?" The elf begins scooping hash browns and eggs into a large dish all while flipping a thick slice of ham in a frying skillet on the wood burning stove. The Elf nearly lost his mind over both the wood burning stove and the oven earlier. Not many homes have such commodities. It's usually just a fire pit and a pot. 

 

"Slept as well as one can on a stone floor. You?" he runs a hand through his now loose braids and yawned.

 

"The couch was very comfortable; I do wish I found some better blankets though. You looked like you got cold after the fire went out."

 

"You slept on the couch? You know there's a bed upstairs, right? You could've slept in my bed." The Elf sets the dish down in front of Shazog and sits down across from him with his own plate.

 

"I haven't been upstairs yet, I thought it would be rude to do so without permission." The Elf takes a bite of the well seasoned potatoes and washes it down with some well water from the back garden. "And besides, if I took your bed, where would you sleep? The floor, again? I can't let you do that in your own house."

 

Shazog is watching him with tired eyes and he shovels eggs and hash into his mouth. He chews a few times and swallows. 

"I'd just sleep in my bed too."

 

The Elf lowers his fork and laughs a little.

"What, while I'm in it?"

 

"Well, yeah. I only got one bed. 'Be rude to have you sleep on the couch the whole time you're with me." He nonchalantly eats half of the ham slice in one bite. "This is delicious by the way."

 

The Elf's face is heating. Unless this bed is even bigger than Shazog is tall, this is going to get… Cozy.

"Uh, perhaps I could sleep in the basement, on some hay and furs? I'd hate to intrude even more than I already have." He smiles, wide eyed and nervous.

 

"Ha! Believe me, sleeping in the basement is the last thing you wanna do in this house. You'll sleep in my bed, its fine." He chugs his water and makes a face. "…thought this was ale…"

 

The Elf can feel his soul ascending to Aetherius. He's never slept in a bed with another person, as far as he can remember. He knows he's over thinking it, but the thought has him anxious. 

 

"Ah, that’s... Grand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If its not too obvious, Ive taken some liberties with the way The player home and Anvil are laid out. when playing TES games, i always run off the assumption that what we, the player, are seeing are a compacted version of things. if these were real places, there would be more than one road going through the *entire* town. also I have an image in my head of Benirus manor that i cant seem to shake, so you'll be reading themanor how I remember it, and not how it actually is in game! i hope that clears some things up. <3


	6. The Chapel of Dibella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was just thinkin, this'll be fun to rewrite in like four years. that is if it doesnt take that long to finish in general.  
> I hope yall like this chapter! It was rlly fun to write and i wasnt really thinking of touching on the nonsense that is Benirus manor yet, but I really have no reason not to so YEET.  
> Hope yall had a delish thanks giving (if u practice that holiday, i dont kno ur life, but i love u)!!!!!!!!!!

While the bed looked Imperial in style, it was definitely made with an Orc in mind.

 

It was about eight and a half feet long and nearly as wide. It had to have been custom made, along with the sheets and pillows. 

 

Shortly after breakfast, Shazog had excused himself to take a nap which happened to last all day. Now, at 8:30 pm the Elf finds himself standing in the darkened bedroom, trying to figure out how to scale the mattress that Shazog was currently sprawled out on. He was also lying on top of the sheets, which was adding to the difficulty of the task; it's hard  
to snuggle in when you have a 400 pound man pinning down the duvet. 

 

He makes his way on to the bed where there is space available. The bed may be big but so is his champion; the man takes up most of the surface area.  
The master bedroom is fairly average sized, housing only the bed, a nightstand and a wardrobe. The fireplace heats the room steadily with its low-burning embers, which cast a warm glow around the otherwise eerie room.

 

Having been effectively alone most of the day while Shazog slept, the Elf finally took it upon himself to explore the manor.  
In the daylight, the home felt a little cold and lonely at worst. The color of the walls and natural lighting gave the house a serene bluish glow about it.  
The Elf's favorite parts of the house had to be on the ground floor. 

 

The kitchen was a given, with the wood burning stove and the stone oven. Right across from the kitchen was a neatly tucked away wash room, which in the Elf's opinion, more closely resembled an imperial bath house. He absolutely could not wait to try out the tub; it was huge and decorated with glistening tiles in every shade of blue you could imagine! Shazog doesn’t appear to own any soap, so he'd have to figure out how to bring it up later when Shazog was awake for longer than forty minutes.

 

Thoughts of shopping for necessities bring him to his own clothing. All he owns is his burlap pants and green woven tunic. It's what he's worn to bed for the past two nights; he knows he could simply disrobe now that there are blankets to keep him warm, but he doubts his Champion would appreciate waking up to his houseguest naked as a newborn.  
Perhaps if he pulls his weight around the manor, Shazog would give him an allowance? Or maybe he could ask to borrow a night shirt from the Orc. 

He decides that may be too intimate of a thing to ask.

 

At this point, he's managed to wiggle his way under the covers. The bed is so warm, mostly due to Shazog's body heat. 

Just when he thought he was comfortable enough to doze off, he sees the balcony curtain flutter out of the corner of his eye.

 

Now the Elf isn't afraid of ghosts, per se, but he isn't keen on being watched while he sleeps. He sits up in the sheets and takes a closer look.

 

In the daylight, the manor is pleasant; but at night, the Elf is quickly finding that at night, the manor is strange feeling and more than a little frightening. 

 

The curtain freezes mid-flutter. The Elf jumps a little.  
The thick fabric suddenly constricts and the form of a human man is outlined, mouth agape in an agonized scream.

 

The Elf feels a cold hand grab his neck and an unintelligible whisper in his ear. Needless to say, the Elf launches himself out of the bed screaming, scrambling over Shazog, accidentally stomping on the Orc's stomach, all in an effort to make as much space between him and whatever that was. 

 

"Wh- what the fuck?" Shazog groggily sits up and looks at the Elf who has climbed into the window sill, cowering and making a high-pitched screeching noise.

 

"There's- there's a man in the curtain-and- m-my neck, with the voice and-!!" The Elf shakily points to the figure, still outlined in the curtain, screaming in silence.

 

"Damn it, Lorgren!" Shazog leans over the edge of the bed and fishes out a wooden cane with a silver owl for a handle. He gets up out of bed and smacks the curtain with the silver end of the cane twice, and a green mist leaves the fluttering fabric and dissipates into gooey plasma on the floor.

 

Shazog grumbles to himself and turns to help the Elf out of the window.

 

"Sorry 'bout that. He's a stubborn son of a bitch. Thought I really got him last time with that sealing ritual." 

 

"… What do you mean 'he'?" The Elf really just wants to go to bed now, but Shazog has him gently by the wrist and is guiding him out of the room and down the stairs.

 

"It's kinda like having rats or termites. If we don’t do something now, he'll just keep coming back and getting worse. You know how to kick shins, right?" He yawns and continues past the living area and into an alcove with a single door. He grabs a candle off the nearby end table and lights it with a flint. 

 

"Uh, I suppose I know how to kick shins? ...Why?" The Elf takes the offered candle and follows Shazog into the dark basement. The candle does a fairly decent job of illuminating the space, however.

 

"He's probably summoned a skeleton or two. If they get too close, just kick 'em a little. They fall to pieces like a sweetroll in milk." He pats the Elf on the back and the Elf furrows his brow and draws his mouth into a hard line. 

 

"I'm sorry, I think I missed something. Why are there ghosts in your house?"

 

The Orc pauses briefly after walking them down the short staircase into the cellar.

 

"Oh, this house used to belong to the Benirus'; old local family. The original patriarch like, became a litch or something and now he wants me dead. I think he wants to kill all of Anvil too, I don’t know, his motivations seem confused." Shazog shrugs, still gently holding onto the Elf's wrist. The Orc Yawns again, still groggy.

 

"…Why haven't you just called a priest already?" 

 

"Priest's cost money." The Orc mumbles, still making his way to the very back of the cellar. 

 

The Elf shoot's him an appalled look, but it goes unseen. How much could a priest possibly charge to exorcise a home? The Elf would rather scrub the church floors for a year than let this continue on. 

 

Perhaps the local priest would be interested in bartering. 

 

As the two descended further into the basement, rubble came into view and a slight draft wafted through the small space.

 

"Damn it, he broke the wall again." Sure enough, the back wall and the pickling rack that once leaned against it lay in ruins on the stone floor. "And my apricots!! I pickled those last year! Those were gonna be delicious." The Orc grumbles to himself.

 

"Foolish mortals! I will rise from the depths and bring down the wrath of my Master, Mannimarco!" The hidden room beyond the destroyed wall begins to emit a red glow and the form of the litch hovers over an altar at the center of the room. The creaking of bones can be heard further in. 

 

"Is that him? That’s the litch, right?" The Elf gently rests his hand on Shazog's forearm. "Can we please get a priest? I'm kind of scared." He looks tired and Shazog falters slightly at the Elf's quiet confession.

 

"What, right now? It's late; I don’t think they'd be willing to do it tonight." Shazog's voice softens. Lord Benirus continues to hover only about fifteen feet away. "…Would they?"

 

The litch clears its throat.

 

"They might. At the very least they'll let us stay in the Chapel for the night- for free- if they can't do it right now." The Elf continues, pointedly ignoring the litch.

 

"… You got a point, kid." Shazog quirks his brow. "I mean, if we really have to we could also stay the night at the inn. I know the innkeep, he can get us a discount." 

 

"Oh, that sounds lovely. The Inn's not haunted, is it?" The Elf asks quietly and Shazog reassures him that no, the inn is not haunted.

 

"MORTALS-" The litch shouts from the altar, still floating, still unmoving. 

 

"Shut up Lorgren! You two-bit necromancing sham." Shazog turns and shouts back.  
"Ok, let's go, I guess."

 

"MORTALS??" The litch yells again as the two walk away.

 

//////////////////////////////

 

"Theres a… Litch? In your basement?" The woman groggily stares up at Shazog, dressed in a sleeping robe, grey hair pinned up in a bun.

 

"Yes ma'am. It drove us from our bed." Shazog gestures towards the Elf who shifts awkwardly on the steps to the undercroft. The Priestess looks to the Elf and then back at Shazog and then to the Elf again. She mutters something about 'all kinds giving themselves to the beauty of love' with a sour expression.

 

"And you're sure it’s a litch?" She speaks up before either of them can question her.

 

"Well, Mother Trevaia; he's levitating, skinless and shouting about the king of worms." Shazog says blandly; the Elf giggles a little.

 

Trevaia sighs loudly.

 

"… I can handle it in the morning."

 

//////////////////////////

 

Unfortunately for Shazog's wallet, Mother Trevaia didn’t offer the two a stay at the chapel before she returned to her quarters, and she conveniently didn’t give the two any time to ask if they could stay. 

 

So it was off to the Counts Arms.


End file.
